I followed on his heels as he walked from the living room to the kitchen. “That’s not true! You could never make me miserable. Don’t go. Stay. At least have a drink with me. Please! You owe me that.” I picked up the wine glasses from the table a little too quickly and the drinks sloshed over the rims and onto my hands.
The drink from one glass was brighter. Thicker. It clung to my skin instead of running down my arm and dripping to the floor.
I hoped Brett didn’t notice.
“Just a drink. For old times.”
“No, Cheyanne. I need to go.”
“Where? Where are you going?”
“Just… out. I need a minute to think.”
I sat the glasses on the counter, and ran to Brett. I wrenched onto his wrist and held tight. “Brett, you owe me at least a drink. You give me to the end of a glass of wine, where you listen and I talk. I’ve never cheated. Ever. Just give me one drink, Brett.”
Brett pulled his hand from my grasp. “Stop it. You are embarrassing yourself.”
“If you don’t give me one drink, I will show up at your office every single day. I will deface your bench signs. You just think I was crazy stopping traffic today? I am a Murphey, and let me tell you, I am just getting started.”
Brett kept walking.
“Brett Alexandra, I will call your mama!”
Brett froze.
Bitzy Alexandra was my ace in the hole. She was the kind of woman I probably would have liked if she hadn’t been a constant reminder of everything my own mama wasn’t. Bitzy had been a hard nut to crack, but I’d finally won her over. Now mommy-dearest loved nothing more than to brag to her country club friends about her “famous” daughter-in-law. Brett had always gotten a good laugh from it but she loved me and would give Brett hell if I spun the story right—if I let her find out that he was screwing around on poor lil’ me.
Brett turned and smiled coldly, sending chills the length of my spine. “You think I owe you a drink? Fine. I’ll have one drink.” He picked up the glass nearest him—the one that was a little too red and a little too thick. He threw it back, draining it in a single, giant gulp.
He winced and shook his head, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Throw that bottle out. There was something chunky in it.” He stuck his tongue from the corner of his mouth and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of a putrid taste. “I’ll call you and we will figure out what to do about the house.”
Again, he turned to go.
“Where are you going?” I hated the pleading whine of my voice, but desperation was pumping through my veins at full force as I saw my future slip further and further away.
Why wasn’t it working? Had Bradley been right? Had I screwed up by not waiting?
“You said stay for a drink. I had a drink. Now I’m leaving.”
“But you can’t.”
“I can. I am.”
He walked into the driveway. I followed, still in my underwear, not caring about the neighbors or anyone else. Only Brett. Only us.
Pellets of rain soaked Brett’s button down and matted my hair.
I threw myself against him. “Don’t you feel different? Don’t you want to be with me?” I snaked my arms around his neck, and pulled myself even closer, smashing my body against his.
“Come on now. Let go. I have somewhere to be.” His voice was surprisingly gentle as he unwound my arms from his waist.
“It’s with her isn’t it?”
He said nothing but something inside of me snapped, twisting apart. I planted my hands in the center of Brett’s chest and pushed as hard as I could.
Brett stumbled backwards, his Sperry’s slipping on the wet pavement. His arms flew over his head, and when his foot touched the soggy grass, he doubled over as if a stone fist had hammered the air from his lungs.
He leaned forward and gasped.
“I can’t believe you Brett. All I ever wanted was to love you. For you to love me.” My voice rose with every screamed word. The water still pounded down from the sky, and my bare skin glistened under the glow from the corner bulb. Overhead, the dark moon cast no light, hidden in the inky, starless sky.
A look of horror froze on Brett’s face. He looked down at his arms as his skin began to toughen. Deep ridges bore into him like miniscule tunnels and I watched as he struggled to rub a hand over his face, to feel the rough texture his skin was taking, but found he was unable. His joints were stiff.
“What’s happening?” He croaked. His voice was soft, barely a whisper. He looked down at his hands, without moving his stiff neck. “What did you do to me, Cheyanne?”
His color changed from golden to a deep ashy gray, flecked with streaks of dark brown.
I inhaled deeply and it was as if I were breathing for the first time. The broken pieces inside me fell away, like scales falling from a sinner’s eyes, and suddenly everything was clear.
We would be together. Forever.
Laughter—brought on by pure, unadulterated joy—tickled my throat and I struggled to keep it inside.
“You will never find anyone who loves you like me, Brett. The only thing I ever wanted was for you to stay. To put down some roots and make a home with me.” My eyes were wide. The corners of my lips ticked upward and I couldn’t hold the laughter in. I didn’t want to.
I watched as the muscles of Brett’s back turned rigid as his spine fused, drawing his shoulders up. His eyes pleaded with me even as his mouth closed forever.
“I am helping you, Brett. Don’t you see? Now we will be together forever. Forever, Brett!”
His feet burst through the leather soles of his shoes, and pushed deep into the soft soil. His toes stretched and grew, uncurling down, down, down, into the darkness where earthworms burrowed.
I stood in front of him, rain beading against my glowing skin. “I just want you to stay Brett. To stay with me forever.”
His neck straightened and stretched, stiffening his shoulders, reaching his arms high into the sky. His fingers spread and elongated until they weren’t fingers at all. He sprouted green, healthy leaves that tasted air, and somehow I knew that every wisp of wind would be a delicacy, and it filled my heart to see something so beautiful.
I watched, clapping my hands with glee as his skin continued to grow heavier and tougher, offering protection. The small indentions of his eyes were barely visible above the bumpy knot of his nose.
“Now you will never leave me.” I ran a finger tenderly over rough oak bark. “You will stay.”
Epilogue
The spring breeze rustled his branches as his leaves feasted on the morning sunshine. He couldn’t remember the man he’d once been. All he knew—all he cared for—was the happiness of Spring. The beginnings of Spanish moss hung from the tops of his highest branches, like streamers at a party, and a family of bluebirds nested in his limbs, singing him to sleep every night and waking him in the morning. His roots tunneled deep into the Earth, making him sturdy and strong and quenching his thirst.
The young Oak was content.
The door to the house opened with a slam and a woman with hair the color of an orange sunrise walked outside. She caressed his bark tenderly, then reached her arms round his trunk in embrace. “Isn’t this so much better, Brett?” she mumbled. “I have some food for you.” She dipped a hand into a bag near her bare feet and scattered pellets among his bumpy roots.
A car pulled into the driveway and two more women got out. The tall one looked down at the tiny one and furrowed her brow. “Cheyanne,” she called, “When is the last time you left the house? A man named Steven stopped by the shop and asked if I was your sister. He told me that you haven’t been to work in weeks. He said the station manager is about to start auditioning for a permanent replacement.”
The woman again encircled her arms around the oak’s trunk, and pressed her cheek into his rough bark. She inhaled his woodsy scent but said nothing.
“God Cheyanne,” the smaller woman said, “this is weird. You
have got to pull yourself together. Sooner or later someone is going to come looking for him. Whether it is the police or his family.” She stepped closer to the woman and whispered, “You need to be ready for that. You need to know what you are going to tell them.”
At this, the woman pulled away. With a confused look, she turned to the shorter woman. “What do you mean?”
“I mean they are going to be looking for Brett. Hell, they have probably already started! At least we know they won’t find a body.”
The woman with the sunrise hair rocked onto her heels, disgust coloring her face. “A body? Of course they won’t find a body. I would never hurt Brett. He is right here.” She gestured to the Oak. “And this is where he is going to stay.”
Stay.
Stay. The word was like a whisper, caressing his leaves, It was wind in his branches and earth on his roots. It felt right. True. Yes. I will stay.
ABOUT EM SHOTWELL
Em Shotwell is a cancer survivor, foster care advocate, white belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and a casual geek. Sometimes she writes books about misfits and the people who love them.
When she’s not frowning at her computer screen, Em enjoys spending time outdoors hiking, or indoors daydreaming and wishing she could play the banjo. She’s also the author of several books including the critically acclaimed Blackbird Summer.
SARA DOBIE BAUER
DESTINY’S DARK LIGHT:
PART ONE
Time will come for Loach and Dorcha to meet,
but divining when is no easy feat.
Born enemies, the Loach shall harness magic light,
while Dorcha brings about eternal night.
The Dorcha will have eyes of green and blue,
while Loach will shine bright of hue.
When they finally meet and their powers awaken,
the magic world will be mightily shaken.
Our people hope for light magic to triumph,
But wishing against fate is an act of defiance.
- The Book of Shadows
Cyan Burroughs reclined in the rickety leather chair that smelled of sage with her big, black boots propped on the desk edge. The dim morning light of her aunt Sybil’s secret office was more than enough to read by as she flipped through another dusty tome about spell casting until the pungent odor of painting oils crept up behind her. She turned to find Sybil—red hair in a halo of frizz and a smudge of black on her nose.
“What are you doing here already?” Sybil asked.
“I never went home last night.” Cyan closed the book and tossed it on the desk. They both coughed on a cloud of spilled incense ash.
From behind her back, Aunt Sybil pulled a small canvas and handed it to her niece. “I’m quite proud of this one. Finished it after breakfast this morning.”
Cyan sighed and looked down at the black and white painting—one of dozens her aunt had crafted over the years, never in color, because Sybil’s visions were never in color, as if the fates wanted her aunt’s psychic ability relegated to the silent film era.
The painting was of him again. Cyan had known his face since infancy, the man her aunt said she would one day love. This particular painting was of him in profile, sun shining across his dark hair and casting shadows down his handsome face.
“It looks like every other one you’ve done.” Cyan handed the painting back. She grew tired of his image sometimes, tired of waiting for him to show, tired… just tired.
Cyan jokingly called him “Dofheicthe,” Gaelic for “invisible”—“Dof” for short.
She laughed off all the paintings and Sybil’s promises of true love but secretly kept a folded piece of paper in her wallet—a tiny drawing of his face penned when Cyan was only thirteen, back when she believed fleetingly in princesses finding Prince Charming.
Sybil sighed through her nose and studied the small canvas. She sang, “Someday, my prince will come…”
Cyan yawned and stood. She used the rubber band on her wrist to pull her nappy blonde braids into a huge ponytail on the back of her head and walked to the bookshelf behind the midnight blue curtain, where Sybil kept the real treasures. Most people didn’t know about the secret books behind the blue curtain—books about curses, spells, and the Craft. They may have suspected, but they didn’t know, excepting a choice, old money few. Just as most people didn’t know members of the Plainacher-Burroughs clan were actually witches, Cyan’s father included.
Sybil owned a popular bookstore on Broad Street in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, known simply as Sea Books—an ocean-side play on her abilities as a seer—and lived in the small apartment upstairs. People often came for Sybil’s books on natural remedies and self-help, while Cyan’s mother, Rue, taught classes about tinctures and anti-aging creams.
“Did you sleep at all, sweetheart?”
Cyan dismissed her aunt with a hand wave and fingered through spell books until she found one about potions.
Sybil muttered to herself and disappeared back to the front of the bookstore, leaving behind the smell of honeysuckle, a scent that heightened psychic awareness. Cyan resumed her position at the desk and kept reading; she couldn’t do anything else.
Cyan’s destiny had been determined while she was still in her mother’s womb—her powerful Grandmother Plainacher sensed that she would grow to be the Loach, the witch prophesized in her people’s Book of Shadows to take down the dark Dorcha, and Sybil backed her mother’s bid. So Cyan was born to fight, it seemed, but in the long history of her family’s magic, she was the only one who had not manifested during puberty.
The prophecy stated her powers would lie dormant until the appearance of the Dorcha. No matter how many potions her mother mixed, how many blood-bound spells her father cast, Cyan was defenseless in a world that expected her to one day be its protector. She toyed mindlessly with the black agate pendant at her throat.
“Go get me some hot chocolate, dear,” Sybil’s voice said from the front room. “You know how I like it.”
“Dark with heavy cream and two sugars,” Cyan grumbled, although maybe it was indeed time she saw the sun.
Liam Cody sat up in bed and stretched his long arms. The sunlight streamed in through the blinds and touched his eyes. He always woke with the sunrise, always—the life of a habitual runner. Just as he went to stand, though, he felt Zoe’s arms wrap around his waist and pull.
“Stay,” she said.
He kissed the top of her head. “I want to run five miles today.”
“Run five miles tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. And if this fundraising event tonight promises as much champagne as you keep hinting at, I plan to spend tomorrow in my pajamas between sessions of lazy sex and bad television.”
She sighed and rolled back over.
They’d only been in Charleston for three weeks, ever since Zoe landed the job at a posh all-girls school, teaching English. Together, they’d packed their belongings in San Francisco and hit the road. They’d been lucky to find a two-story house in the French Quarter, chopped into sizeable condos. Then, Liam found a job as manager of the Broad Street Bistro, the most high-end steakhouse in a town of high-end restaurants. Sometimes, he felt like his life had been nothing but blessed since he met Zoe three years ago in that wine bar on the coast.
He ran a little over five miles that morning. The weather was so different in Charleston—such a change from the foggy west coast. Even though it was November, the humidity still stuck, but so did a cool breeze. He arrived home soaking wet with sweat, which made Zoe squeal when he tried to hug her. After she headed off to the exclusive Brighton School for Girls, Liam showered, shaved, and watched the BBC news, his favorite, before thumbing through his extensive wardrobe of very expensive suits.
He was a clotheshorse, but it was part of the job. He’d been working in high-end restaurants since arriving in America from Ireland when he was eighteen. His job was about organizing inventory and scheduling staff, but more so, it was about charming the cu
stomer—and looking the part.
He chose a specially ordered Spencer Hart navy blue suit with a light blue shirt and navy tie. He made sure his shoes were extra shiny, gave a quick glance at his tuxedo hanging on the closet door—which he would need for Zoe’s school event that night—and stepped out into a morning that smelled of salt and seafood.
Broad Street Bistro was only a few blocks from their condo, so he made it there by nine, as planned. Broad Street was, arguably, the most beautiful street in his new southern home, what with its towering palm trees, antique architecture, and red brick road. He wandered past shops, still closed, and pulled keys from his pocket as he approached the huge, darkened window of the Bistro.
As he moved to unlock the door, though, someone bumped into him and didn’t stop or apologize. Liam dropped the keys but watched a wild, lengthy mass of bright blonde braids swinging away from him. The woman had a book in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other. She wore an aged leather jacket and tight, black jeans. She couldn’t have been more than five-foot-five—a tiny thing compared to Liam—and she had the tight little body of a woman who’d be fun in bed.
“What’s up, bro?” Tommy, the sous chef, arrived at his side and joined him in admiring the view as the distracted blonde woman wandered further down Broad. “Hey, don’t you have a hot chick at home?”
Liam smiled and shoved Tommy in the shoulder. “Window shopping, little man. Just window shopping.” He reached down and picked up the dropped keys.
“Who you calling little?”
Liam stood and held the keys above his head. “Get the keys from me.”
Tommy shook his head and laughed. “Ass. Let me inside. Let’s get this day started. You know we have a twenty top tonight?”
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